Chapter 6 - The Flight Manifest and the Airport Intercept
The neon sign above the local police precinct flickered against the gray pre-dawn sky as Dad, Rebecca, and I pushed through the heavy glass doors.
The desk sergeant, a tired-looking man with graying hair named Miller who had known our family for twenty years, looked up from his paperwork as we approached.
“Morning, Arthur,” Sergeant Miller said, nodding to my father. “Morning, Caroline. Wait… aren’t you supposed to be on a honeymoon in Bermuda right now?”
“The honeymoon’s canceled, Frank,” Dad said grimly, slapping a thick manila folder onto the front desk. “We need to file grand larceny and wire fraud charges against Andrew Vance.”
Miller’s eyebrows shot up. He opened the folder, flipping past the photocopies of bank statements, the black leather ledger, and Rebecca’s signed sworn affidavit detailing the offshore shell corporations.
“Vance?” Miller muttered, reading the names on the wire transfers. “Wait a minute. Is this Andrew Vance from Apex Logistics?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
Miller leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Well, you’re in luck, or bad luck depending on how you look at it. Federal agents were just in here twenty minutes ago asking about Apex Logistics. Turns out Andrew’s firm has been under federal investigation for international money laundering for the last eight months.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Federal investigation?”
“Mom’s ledger,” Dad realized suddenly, turning to me. “That’s why she was tracking his accounts. She didn’t just find out about the affair; she found out his company was dirty.”
Miller picked up his landline phone, punching in a rapid sequence of numbers. “Let me call TSA at the regional airport. If he’s flying out to the Caymans this morning, his flight leaves in less than an hour. He won't get past federal customs if his assets are frozen under a federal warrant.”
The next ten minutes inside the precinct felt like hours.
Rebecca sat in the corner plastic chair, clutching a paper cup of lukewarm tap water, staring blankly at the floor. Dad stood behind my chair, his hand resting heavily on my shoulder, his breathing steady and determined.
Sergeant Miller slammed the phone down onto its cradle, his face lit up with a grim smile.
“They caught him,” Miller announced.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Caught him? Where?”
“Boarding gate B-4,” Miller said, grabbing his cap. “TSA flagged his passport the moment he handed it to the gate agent. Federal marshals were already stationed at the terminal because of the ongoing corporate investigation. They pulled him off the jet before the door even closed.”
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Dad let out a long, ragged breath, pulling me into a tight, fierce hug.
“He’s not going to the Caymans,” Miller added, pulling a set of car keys from his belt. “He’s going to a federal holding cell in Portland. And if these bank records are accurate, he’s not seeing daylight for a very, very long time.”
